Sexi-Phi

by BRK   

Joining a frat turns out to be a big transition for Holden, especially given the way his body is reacting to all his extra-hot house-brothers.

3 parts Added Jun 2023 Updated 26 Aug 2023 11k views 4.9 stars (17 votes) 19k words

Holden had a secret. It wasn’t a dark and dangerous secret, nor was it especially exotic—he hadn’t savaged a viscount’s bastard son on a stormy deserted moor with a pitchfork and left him for dead, for example, and he wasn’t the orphaned child of fuck-and-run space aliens left to be clandestinely raised as an unwitting changeling. His parents, Norm and Patricia of Otter’s Grove, Wisconsin, were definitely his bio-progenitors, the genetic lottery having bequeathed him his olive-toned Italian mother’s diminutive height and his lumberjack-sized father’s pasty complexion (all things being equal he would have preferred it to have been the other way around).

And he’d never even been to a moor. Or “amour,” for that matter, he thought with morose amusement as he sat alone at his desk, listening to the distant sounds of the others laughing and cheering downstairs at some sports video or other on the living room flatscreen.

That lack of amour was rather the point. He knew he was being ludicrous, even pathetic, but from the moment he’d set foot in this house Holden had been dead set on preventing his worldlier, more experienced, sexually-confident frat brothers from finding out that their newest freshman recruit and third-generation legacy member, the perfectly ordinary-seeming Holden Wyatt, was as virginal as a refugee from a ‘50s morality-short malt shop. Being lean, pale, and virulently redheaded he’d been compared to Archie Andrews often enough, but these days with even that stalwart of wholesome midwestern purity having long since developed six-pack abs, a thirst-following, and seemingly unslakable lust—just like pretty much every single boy he knew in real life—Holden was left feeling uncomfortable and anomalous.

Going to college and joining his dad’s frat was supposed to give him a new starting point in a safe environment, but so far it had only made things worse. Being surrounded by virile, uninhibited men—in the house, on campus, in the pubs, fucking everywhere around him, in all types and every variety—had somehow triggered Holden’s libido these past two and a half weeks, escalating his need to new and uncomfortable levels. Back home he’d gone ages without touching himself, with only the occasional nocturnal emission to let him know his negligence was not to be tolerated indefinitely. And now? Half a month in a house whose very walls, furniture, and pristine hardwood floors seemed steeped in high-octane testosterone… where the good-natured manliness of the inhabitants seemed to be as much a part of the place as its stairs and doorways… and Holden was finding himself thinking about his willy all the damned time. And furtively fishing it out for a quick rub more often than he’d care to admit. Being a virgin was bad enough without possessing a cock increasingly inclined to demand he do something about it.

The frat was Phi Epsilon Lambda, generally known as “Phi” or “Phi Ep” on campus. It was an old and storied social fraternity, the most common attributes of its members being strong GPAs and gregarious dispositions. The frat had also developed bit of a service bent in recent years in support of local charities, a twice-yearly strip show competition benefitting a gay teen crisis center having become its biggest and most popular fundraising event. Holden had known about the contest but hadn’t expected that it implied anything about the baseline hotness of the membership, any more than a prospective New York City firefighter assumed he had to be calendar-worthy to don turnout gear and jump on an engine. Lately, though, he’d been second-guessing this assumption, his gonads reacting with disorienting levels hot-’n’-horny excitement to every man he shared a roof with like a chocoholic in a Ghirardelli store.

Exhibit A was Anthony, the smiley, upbeat brown-eyed blond who had the room next to his and from day one was parading around the third-floor hallway day and night in nothing but clingy black boxer-briefs. This mode of attire tended to show off his lightly tanned, unhoned brawn, which he did with the easygoing unconcern of a born exhibitionist. Anthony was naturally broad-shouldered and flat-stomached, and though he had never spent a day in the gym, his beefy chest, firm thighs, and rounded shoulders seemed weirdly authentic, like he represented the rawest, purest state of man.

Amazingly, it seemed Anthony had actually been holding himself back those first couple weeks out of deference to the latest crop of initiates, Holden included; now that the pledges were more-or-less settled in Anthony had reverted to treating the whole house as a pants-free zone. Yesterday Holden had gone down to breakfast before class to find the man leaning against the sink eating Lucky Charms from a big yellow bowl wearing nothing but a pair of bulging midnight-blue Fruit of the Looms and a big, milk-bordered grin. Holden didn’t even remember anything from that morning except the ache of his berserker erection.

The worst part was that he was right next door, on the other side of that wall right in front of him. It wasn’t just that Anthony being next door meant that Holden saw him in his nearly-raw state all the time—it was that he couldn’t keep himself wondering how quickly those comfy-looking briefs got yanked off the moment their heavy maplewood doors were closed. And what happened afterward.

Across from Holden on the third floor was Anthony’s total opposite, Jamie. Where Anthony was chill, unflappable, and smoothly unsculpted, Jamie was high-strung, obsessive, and ripped, though without being bulky. It was as though a hundred percent of Jamie’s laser-like workout energy went into making him as fiercely cut and as aesthetically defined as humanly possible. Ash blond to Anthony’s strawberry blond, his tight-lipped frowns seemed likewise to be an intrinsic response to Anthony’s habitually sunny expression. Though fixated in most things, he seemed conflicted about how to dress: Holden was sure Jamie’d be shirtless on the regular, showing off his exquisite form and definition, if it didn’t mean he’d be mirroring his casually nudist frat brother nemesis. Instead he compromised with low-cut tank tops that still, if you cared to look, furnished visual access to his manly cleavage and the intercostals he was so damned proud of.

Maybe he was conflicted about other things to, Holden thought. Jamie’s steel-gray eyes were set on constant glare, especially when it came to Anthony—but they also tended to stay riveted on the blonder, nakeder man, like Jamie wanted Anthony and hated that he wanted him. If those two ever collided in bed, Holden thought, it would be fucking nuclear…

Damn, Holden was getting hard, again. Thinking about Anthony and Jamie was a sexual mine field he didn’t need. Quickly he turned his thoughts to the room Anthony’s other side, two down from Holden, home to a shy and studious junior named Dwight. That should have been safe harbor libido-wise, but the truth was Holden had been increasingly finding his distinctive combination of lanky body, pale blue eyes, and aw-shucks awkwardness unaccountably sexy. It didn’t help that the whole house seemed to find him endearing and loved to tease him, because any attention produced a bashful smile and a warm tint to his cheeks that churned Holden’s heated balls. Dave, the fraternity secretary and one of the alpha dogs of their now twenty-man pack, had taken to grinning and ruffling Dwight’s short auburn hair whenever he passed him. A couple days ago, in the back yard during a frat-wide cookout, this stimulus on Dave’s part his produced not only the expected blush and abashed smile but a sheepish hand behind the neck as well, and Holden had actually had to turn away and carefully adjust the sudden half-erection he’d popped as a result.

Then there was Dave himself. Medium height with wiry brown-hair and cappuccino-brown eyes, Dave was unremarkable in looks and build. Even his dress was humdrum, always in a solid green pocket tee and new-looking jeans. Dave’s deep appeal was all in how he filled a room with his confident, smirking presence, drawing your whole attention in a way that had made Holden wonder more than once if the human race really were innately divided between leaders and followers.

It was his visceral reaction to Dave, in fact, that had gotten Holden thinking that he was manifesting a personal, physical reaction to a major life change. It was like, the sudden and dramatic transition through the looking glass into a world teeming with men—college men, intense frat brothers, men who shared his floor and food and air and space—had produced a super-intense psychosomatic reaction, the upshot of which was that he was horny and needing to cum all the damned time. The break he’d experienced from a staid, isolated past into this world of Men had somehow, well, broken and reinvented him, kick-starting his hormones and a producing new and persistent baseline of highly responsive sensual readiness.

It didn’t make sense objectively. Holden’s type wasn’t any of these guys. He went for dark, cut-muscled pretty boys with piercing eyes under thick eyebrows, or thought he did. But the way Anthony, Jamie, Dwight, even plain but magnetic Dave kept sparking him to sudden, unwanted, unprovoked erections… the way the rest of the frat were generally doing the same no matter what they were wearing or how stupid they were acting… all that had made him pretty much certain that coming here had somehow woken up his prick and supercharged his hitherto-dormant but apparently more than healthy libido.

Holden blinked, annoyed at the way his fratmates sent his brain spinning. He glanced at his screen—evidently he’d been staring blindly at the required reading on his laptop screen for so long, the red swirly screensaver had started up and he hadn’t even noticed. His left hand had unconsciously slipped down to his crotch, too, the heel of his wrist pressing mischievously against his lawless erection and the warm wet spot it had already created in his newest jeans. His skin felt hot and flushed all over, prickling with desire, as if he’d already started doing what he… clearly needed to be doing.

He sighed and quickly flipped open the buttons on his 501s with a few deft motions. He knew there was no chance of getting any work done until he’d taken care of this beast. Once he got hard, lately, every shift of his weight, every brush of underwear or skin against his prick flooded him with sensation, making it impossible to concentrate on anything but his own wanton need and the louche pleasure he gave himself surrendering to it.

Finding the vent in his underwear, he hauled his cock out. This took some doing thanks to its size and extreme hardness. Holden stared at it for a long a moment. It lay stiff and cupped in his hand, its reddened flesh framed against the florid pink of his quivering palm. The thing looked swollen and huge—unaccountably huge, as though Holden had never actually known a true, full-blown, all-the-way-hard erection until he’d come here.

All this time, he’d thought he’d had a wholly unexceptional prick: average and none-too-thick, with a bit of extra foreskin to lend the appearance of extended length, a bit like the spires on skyscrapers. Except, as it turned out, he’d merely been negligent in providing the thing ample incentive for his erections to achieve their true size and potency and depth of pleasure.

Geez. Just looking at it was a turn-on. He was so hard his foreskin was almost completely pulled off his pre-slicked cockhead. He’d never been particularly copious in his precum or his spend, before, and that was the other thing that had changed—his hardons these days were not only newly massive and abnormally responsive, they were also messy. Ridiculously messy. Just the act of boning up squeezed a smear of clear, thick liquid out of him every single time like he was emptying a sachet of premium lube on himself; even now, as he gaped at his own iron-hard tool and its glistening red glans, the slit welled and wept with pre, waiting urgently for the simple joy of his thumb lifting and swiping luxuriously over the ready, touch-hungry head. His hand was already slimed from the juice he’d already released—ready to stroke.

Holden drew in a shaking breath. He was so hard, so big, so close already. His hand tensed, ready to squeeze and twist this beast into releasing its cataclysmic pleasure—

A swift rapping sounded abruptly at his door, three quick raps. “Hey, newbie, whatcha doing?” came a voice, low and sultry.

That was Costas, the hairy, six-foot-seven Sasquatch star of the college’s mid-ranked football team, who, for whatever perverse reason, was assigned the slant-ceilinged garret room upstairs. Everything he said sounded salacious, and Holden still hadn’t managed to work out whether he was truly that oversexed or if that was just his natural way of talking.

“S-studying!” Holden called back hastily, squeezing his dick hard to prevent the awareness of Costas’s rangy, oversized muscle-bod on the other side of his door from forcing an instant orgasm. So far, every time he’d seen Costas he’d been wearing the same thing: sleeveless gray workout tees and shorty-short lace-up shorts in various colors, with bulky running shoes below and no socks. The uniform was as provocative in its own way as Andrew’s happy-go-lucky boxer-briefs-and-nothing-else look—and that wasn’t taking into account the stunning size, shape, and lines of Costas’s actual body, mostly exposed by these outfits as it was, or the way his limberness of motion and extended reach seemed like attributes gifted to him for bedroom play as much as for results on the gridiron. He was in charge of the pledges this year, and even Holden, who was guaranteed admission thanks to his legacy status, was afraid of the bigger man and what kind of impression he was making on him—which mainly meant that he absolutely could not be caught looking at Costas’s criminally curtailed gymwear, no matter how much it pulled at his attention and made his dick strain with awed desire.

“Uh huh,” Costas drawled back through the door. His fat, heavy, iron-hard, slicked-up dick still throbbing in his fist, Holden shook his head to himself, half amused, half frustrated. Innocent, or smarmy? He had no idea whether to feel called out or not.

“What do you want?” Holden shouted, adding “ya big ape” under his breath.

“Mandatory planning meeting for the November strip show,” Costas told him through the door. “Downstairs, couch room. Now.”

Holden frowned—this was the first he was hearing of this. “Mandatory?” he called back. Mention of the frat’s semi-annual charity skin parade automatically took hold of his imagination, and the image he conjured of Costas participating, peeling off his sweaty shorty-shorts to the delighted whoops of half the students on campus, had Holden squeezing his dick in a death grip in a desperate effort to hold off his unstoppable freight-train orgasm.

“Mandatory for newbies,” Costas purred. “Are you coming, or not?”

“In a sec!” Holden replied truthfully, his voice sounding as strained as he felt.

“Don’t wait too long, or we’ll start without you,” came the reply. And then he was gone. Holden had barely discerned the sound of Costas’s heavy steps reaching the stairs nearest his door and thumping rapidly down them before he was cumming with utter abandon, the big, sloppy spurts spoiling shirt and pants alike as he shot arc after arc of hot, thick jizz all over himself.

He sat back in his chair at last with a messy hand, breathing hard. Balefully cataloguing the hard-to-wash-out stains besmirching his favorite Jack Reacher tee, Holden snorted a surprised laugh—poor Alan Ritchson had got cum in his eye, and that was never a good thing. As he reluctantly stood and pulled his shirt off, wondering what he had clean he could wear down the snap strip-show meeting, Holden considered for the first time that maybe his clothes-hating neighbor next door might just have the right idea.

On his way into the meeting (freshly attired in a black Vampire Diaries tee—like the Reacher tee this was a gift from his sister Phoebe, who liked to tease him for his pretty-boy tastes), Holden found himself trailing after the other two pledges to have survived the first-week cull. By some fluke their names also started with H, and though Costas, when asked, had insisted it was just coincidence Holden couldn’t help wondering if there was a theme being invoked, like this was an episode of QI and everything had to start with a certain letter. His fellow newbies were whispering earnestly with each other as they all navigated the narrow, maze-like hallways of the first floor, and Holden blushed when he realized what they were talking about.

“Fucking balls, I was so embarrassed,” Hank was saying. “Costas came to get me for this meeting thing and I was, like, totally in the middle of jerking off. So wild.”

“No way, me too!” Huan exclaimed, turning his head enough for Holden to see his grin. “Dude, are you, like, extra-horny since you got here?”

“So extra horny,” Hank confirmed solemnly. “I’m, like, aware of my cock all the time, like, twenty-four-seven. It feels big and, like, I don’t know, ready.”

“It looks big, too!” Huan added, glancing down at his fellow-initiate’s crotch. He said it unself-consciously, like he was remarking on Hank’s choice of shoes. Holden wished he could see.

“It so totally feels big,” Hank agreed. “Big and thick, dude. I could swear it’s, like, an inch bigger.”

“No way! Me too!” Huan said again. “It feels amazing.”

“So good,” Hank said. “I don’t know what it is, but I feel like I never really get soft, you know? That’s, like, probably why it looks big all the time.”

“Right?”

“I’m cumming so much, too, dude,” Hank confided. “Like, no lie, I’m gonna start needing a towel to mop it all up if this keeps up.”

“So awesome,” Huan gushed.

Holden stopped in his tracks as they reached the door to the “couch room,” momentarily stunned by what he’d heard. Up until a minute ago he was certain his uncontrollable cock and stacked-up orgasms were all about how weird it was for him to shift his immediate population density from ten people per square mile to ten manly testosterone-teeming men practically in arm’s reach at all times and a hundred in earshot if he came as loudly ass he wanted to. But if Hank, a transplant from Vancouver, and Huan, who’d grown up in frickin’ Anaheim, were feeling turned on and ready to bone all the time like he was, then maybe something else was—

A big, warm hand pressed between his shoulder blades and propelled him irresistibly forward through the doorway from his sudden stop. “In you go, newbie,” Costas growled sexily in his ear (or not sexily—Holden still couldn’t tell).

Holden tried to ignore he rush of heat from the firm press of Costas’s push against his back and the rough, basso caress of Costas’s voice and stumbled obediently into the couch room, feeling slightly dazed as he took a seat on the nearest couch next to Huan and Hank.

The couch room was exactly what it sounded like: a long room stretched across the back of the whole first floor and filled with a dozen or so deliberately mismatched sofas of all colors and types, the sole unifying characteristic being that they were all large, deep, sturdy, and ridiculously comfortable. The room was all windows on three walls, so that during the day, as now, it was like a sun room; at night it was a transitional space between the house’s more private interior and the safe-but-open expanse of the enclosed back yard.

They entered near the west end, on the left-hand side of the house, and as Holden was settling into the black leather sofa there he noticed they didn’t have the room completely to themselves. Though used for various kinds of fraternity meetings the couch room was otherwise available for the members to hang out in, and Holden’s eyes fell upon a male figure curled up asleep on the furthest couch, the green plaid one against the opposite wall. The snoozing figure faced away from them, and the way the sunlight fell somehow seemed to especially highlight the man’s sweet, round buttocks and the way they expertly filled out his snug, khaki chinos.

Holden was amazed to feel himself rousing again down below just from the sexiness of that ass. You just came, he told his dick in dismay. You just two minutes ago came! Get a grip!

Holden’s cock plumped defiantly, and he gritted his teeth. Wrong choice of words, he hissed inwardly, mad at his brain now as well as his insatiable tool.

Costas took a position standing in front of them. “Okay, newbies, here’s what I want from you,” he said, before starting to lay out the planning and setup chores that would fall on Holden and the others as lowliest members of the frat. Holden knew he should be paying attention, and he’d most likely pay the price later for not absorbing what Costas was telling them, but he was way too distracted by the fact that Costas’s lace-up short-shorts (maroon today) and their attendant, nearly obscene frontward bulge were right in their faces—so close Holden was certain he could smell Costas’s round, sweaty balls, and taste them too, if he leaned forward and licked.

He wasn’t the only one affected, either. Huan and Hank were staring wide-eyed at the the enormous, heavily muscled man and his massive, barely-contained package, and their hands were folded carefully in their laps in an effort, conscious or otherwise, to conceal stiff, uncontrolled arousal that mirrored Holden’s own.

Holden surfaced abruptly when he registered Costas talking about… dancing? “We’ll start teaching you three the moves in a few weeks,” the larger man said in his slow, sultry way. “Armin is a choreographer, and he’s agreed to teach you what you need to know.”

Holden shook his head slightly, sure his rushing blood and huge hardon was interfering with his ability to process what Costas was saying to them. “Teach… us?” he parroted. “Are you saying we have to… compete?”

Costas grinned. “Newbies always shake it for the crowd,” he said in his usual crypto-salacious fashion. “Some guys rush us just for the chance to show of what their daddies gave ‘em.”

Holden glanced at the other two pledges and saw to his surprise that Huan was nodding, as if Costas were describing him. Hank, too, looked excited.

Holden was appalled. My daddy didn’t give me anything of the sort, he wanted to say. Was this the rule back when his father pledged? Had he pulled his gear off for a mob of slavering undergrads? The idea that this fate had now been passed to him was exhilarating in a kind of terrifying way, especially if he couldn’t get his dick under control by then. Would they make him go out in front of the crowd if he was sporting the kind of big, gooey boner that happened to be nuzzling his hip at that very moment?

Costas looked between them, seeming to notice their state of distraction. He folded his bare arms over impressive chest, his big, mobile mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I should let you boys take a privacy break,” he said. “Unless you want to rub one out right here in the room?”

Unexpectedly, Hank grinned up at him cheekily and said, “Yes, please!” His heart stuttering in alarm, Holden spared a second to gape at Hank and Huan (who seemed to be considering the prospect favorably), then at Costas, before bolting guiltily from the room and thundering up the back stairs in something close to a panic. He didn’t know if Hank meant it, or if they’d have followed through with anything, or what—all he knew was what he did next, not the first time that day and definitely not the last.

“…And each of you will need to create and post a three-minute video containing interviews with at least two housemates about your shared college experiences. I don’t need flashy effects or anything, just few snippets of conversation about what college is like for those you’re in closest contact with—and your own experiences, too, of course.”

From the fourth row, Holden stared in horror at his Freshman Encounters professor, a diminutive, fierce-eyed, pastel-wearing tigress named Pamela Haas. A video? Interviewing his housemates? A public video?

He thought of his housemates—the other twenty or so members of his weirdly horny fraternity—and shuddered. Who would he interview? Costas, the muscle giant who made casual remarks about the weather sound like come-ons? Anthony, with his boxer-briefs and his big cheesy grin and the mountain-ranges of his pale, brawny shoulders filling the screen, subliminally suggesting his constant state of near-undress? Loren, the tan, white-haired, extra-lanky swim team jock, whose conversation seemingly consisted entirely of various Speedo products and their effects on his fluid dynamics? Dave, their charismatic, physically ordinary frat secretary, who held your attention so completely you forgot about anything but what he wanted from you?

The whole place was a cock landmine. It was an edifice full of testosterone and cum, and just thinking about the people in it made Holden’s own arousal surge violently like a vicious storm tide. His face heated, and he ducked his head in shame and used the heel of his palm to unbend his awkwardly girthy half-erection, allowing it to spread out along the crease of his hip to full-blown hardness, its slimy head leaving a long slippery mess along the seam of his groin as it swelled and stiffened. God damn it! It was the third erection of the day and it wasn’t even lunchtime.

This assignment was not a good idea. Who came up with this shit anyway? Why can’t they just write papers like any other class? Fuck Freshman Encounters. What was up with this school, thinking they needed a whole semester-long course just to painstakingly introduce first-year undergraduates to everything college—bit by bit, like they were a bunch of easily-frightened fawns? Just point ’em all at the buildings and say, “There it is. Remember why you’re here and try not to be stupid. Class dismissed.”

Holden glanced around surreptitiously at his fellow college initiates, but if he was hoping for allies in a general mutiny he was fated for disappointment. No one else was fulminating at the injustice of doing a video—heck, half of them had probably cut something goofy and sharable for KickThread before breakfast. Most of the class was taking advantage of Professor Haas’s momentary, paper-shuffling pause between topics to discuss the assignment animatedly amongst themselves. Down the row from him in the little auditorium a stylish brunette with carefully moussed cotton-candy-blue hair had already turned and started filming the boy next to him, a fey copper-skinned youth in a red cardigan, asking him about his top five college peeves and pros. Cardigan boy was completely in character, dialing up every expression for maximum impact and keeping his hand gestures perfectly inside the 16 by 9. On the long journey here by train Holden had brooded anxiously over what classes or experiences he might have missed that the big city kids would all have solidly under their belts; clearly one of the classes his high school curriculum had lacked was AP Viral Videos.

Still, maybe Mr. Peeves and Pros had the right idea. Holden started to look around for the other two probies from his frat, Hank and Huan, before reminding himself they were in one of the other FE sections. Would they have the same assignment? But—no. Interviewing Hank and Huan was an even worse idea. The thing was, just like Holden had, his co-newbies had picked up on the hilariously libidinous vibe of the house and the way it only seemed to be getting stronger, their shared outsider perspective maybe making it a tad more obvious than it might have been to the more veteran members steeped in the Phi Ep milieu. Only, unlike Holden, Hank and Huan had embraced the constant low-grade carnality unconditionally and enthusiastically, using the excuse of a household full of unapologetically horny guys to get as lecherous and lewd as possible.

Thanks (Holden thought) to the rapidly eroding timidity that came with freshman status it was mostly with each other so far, but it was clear they were starting to work on branching out any chance they got. They were always jointly ganging up on fratmates with “innocent” snuggles and “helpful” backrubs and “convenient” laps for their hunky more senior fratbrothers snooze on in the cozy, sunwarmed couch room—especially only-briefs Anthony, who was always up for a cuddly mid-afternoon nap and didn’t seem to care if someone else shared the sofa with him while he dozed away. When they weren’t up to those kinds of shenanigans the newbies seemed to attend to each other. Any hour of the day they might be found secreted in a dark corner of the downstairs labyrinth feeling each other up, or closeted behind a “negligently” ajar bedroom door doing who knew what in their double at the far end of the second floor hall from Holden’s tiny, legacy-finagled single.

The worst part was how they were always trying to rope Holden in on their games and turn their dirty duo into a terpitudinous trio. Lately they kept doing things like surprising him with sandwich-hugs that made their erections (and his) very obvious, or plopping down suddenly on either side of him in the dining hall and eating from each other’s trays, or piling into his room for a constant-boner movie night whenever he recklessly forgot to lock his door. They’d actually dug up a frat bylaw somehow that said the room doors weren’t supposed to even have locks—the one on Holden’s door had seemingly been accidentally overlooked when they’d all been removed twelve years previous—and it was only a matter of time before they leveraged this bit of information to extort a louche and supremely spunk-filled late-night circle-jerk out of him. And once that precedent was laid—

Fuck, “laid” was the wrong word.

Holden could just imagine what might happen if he got Hank and Huan alone to make a video—a video about what had changed for them at college no less. He doubted the rest of the class really wanted to see Hank and Huan pulling their big, hard wangs out and then ripping Holden’s own pants off so he could be as exposed and hard and ready to cum as the were. Or… well, okay, maybe they did, Hank and Huan were pretty damn cute, a size smaller than most of his frat brothers but lean and well-proportioned, surprisingly gifted in the dick department, and Huan turned out inexplicably to have the most perfect tight round ass that seemed to show itself no matter how baggy his pants were. It would probably be a pretty popular video, actually, considering it would almost certainly devolve into amateur porn as soon as he pressed record on his phone. Holden kind of wanted not to be tossed out of school for indecency, though, and anyway—no, there was no way Holden was giving those two an engraved invitation to demonstrate exactly what was on their minds now that they were hot ‘n’ horny college boys.

His dick throbbed insistently. He needed to stop thinking about all of this, or he’d have a sudden and very embarrassing accident. He might anyway. Maybe this was one of the “college skills” on the Freshman Encounters syllabus, he thought sardonically—somehow keeping yourself from blowing an urgent, unstoppable load right in the middle of a crowded fifty-student amphitheater. He could hear his own breathing, even as his distracted senses fuzzed out whatever Professor Haas had moved on to talking about. His big, wide, slimy cock was a hot and physical presence, like a forge-red bar of iron you were aware of even when you were facing away from it or had your eyes closed. He’d thought it seemed big when he’d first gotten here, but if anything it seemed even heftier now, long and thick and hard and seeping with a lot of gooey precum when it wasn’t spitting massive, indeed startling, amounts of actual hot, wet cum all over his torso and even his face lately, courtesy of his big tool and his weirdly heavy, always-responsive balls.

It was crazy. He’d actually had to sneak out and buy a fresh econo-pack of black boxer-briefs after he’d soaked all of the ones he’d packed from home and didn’t have any more to change into before his scheduled turn to do laundry downstairs in the frat basement on Wednesday nights. So humiliating, and he was already starting to think he should have bought another pack.

He started to tell himself to “get a grip, Wyatt,” but his dick jumped excitedly and he instantly backed off—no, not getting a grip, he would not get a grip!

Just—be present. Be real, he told himself. The class. It was only partially hot guys (unlike his new home environment). Ordinary people. Professor Haas. Talking. Right. Just listen to Professor Haas.

“All right, then,” the pastel-clad spitfire was saying, “that’s it for the day. Go chat up your housemates! Find out what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling, what they’re hungry to see happen to them. Make me a video we’ll never forget!”

For fuck’s sake, Holden thought.

Everyone got noisily to their feet, gabbling about the assignment and everything else as they filtered out of the auditorium in one, twos, or little groups. Carefully, Holden positioned his bookbag in front of his hard-on and stalked out, cheesed at the way his erections seemed so prominent and obvious and unignorable by himself or others—as if being a twink redhead didn’t make him stand out enough. He wasn’t sure whether to be vexed or amused that the universe seemed to be arrayed in a conspiracy with his stiff, leaking, hair-trigger dick to turn him into a brainless, sex-obsessed horndog like the rest of his freshmen cohort and, it seemed some days, every single denizen of the sweaty, testosterony frat house he now called home.

His face still felt hot as he pushed through the crowded hallway outside the classroom, and thinking about what awaited him back at the frat—a passel of big, hot guys, all of them packing somehow and these days more and more likely to be horned up and radiating arousal—and swore. His own tool was straining and flexing against the crease of his hip as he walked, the slime it had covered the skin there with making it feel like he was actively stroking himself. He did not want to show up at home and dive into that pool of exaggerated masculinity in this condition, and that was assuming he could even make it that far—a vanishingly unlikely prospect considering the way he was practically wanking himself right here in the crowded main atrium of Wexler Hall.

He stopped short, forcing a trio of women right behind him to curse and swerve around him, and looked around hectically. He was edging past the point of denial—he needed a bathroom for an emergency release, and that meant now, before he left the main buildings.

He spotted the doors to the extensive ground floor restrooms fifteen feet away, next to the trophy cases, and shook his head mentally as he watched people streaming in and out of them. As humiliating as an impromptu toilet stall orgasm was already, it would be ten times worse trying to get off in a bathroom that was at present busier than Grand Central Station. Even if he could curtail his grunts and other noises, someone was bound to recognize the sharp smell of copious manly spunk and give him a soul-squashing death glare when he stepped out of the stall—or, worse, gleeful, tongue-in-cheek congratulations at his accomplishment. His sister had sure managed to supply both on different occasions, before Holden had etched an oath in his bones he’d never spurt anywhere at home but isolated in his own bed ever again. He didn’t have the luxury of such a vow this far from Otter’s Grove, but like a seasoned desert hiker experience had taught him to be mindful of perils no matter how extreme the need.

His gaze lit on the narrow, scuffed doors leading to the basement stairs, half-hidden in a mostly-ignored side-alcove. Relief struck him, and the next second he was darting toward them, weaving through the babbling, multi-vectored crowd. He knew from random conversations that at present only the philosophy department was ensconced in Wexler’s basement floor, and that they, notoriously, did not have morning classes. (This, or so he’d heard, was owed to a very eccentric past department chair who believed the mind only functioned in the afternoons—the standing joke was that it was only his brain that worked like that.) The cool, cement-floored basement toilets would be empty at this hour, he assured himself as he thundered down the black-stone stairs. With any luck he’d be free to take care of what was rapidly becoming very urgent business with the obligatory privacy.

A moment later he was standing in front of the solid oak door marked 003 MEN’S, his body quivering with the oncoming orgasm he could feel building up in him, gaping in dismay at an inkjet-printed sign hastily tacked to the scarred surface, heartlessly proclaiming the facilities within to be OUT OF ORDER. His swollen cock, bigger and more demanding than it had any right to be, was twitching against his slicked-up skin, telling Holden he’d insolently given it too much stimulation—it was going to blow no matter what, in the next minute, tops, and it was all his fault.

Frantic, he tried the knob, but the door didn’t move a millimeter—it was solidly deadbolted. Not against him and his spunk specifically, he thought desolately, but it might as well have been. He looked around him desperately. Was there a women’s room? He wasn’t sure he could manage that, even like this. A custodian’s closet? A—a dark corner? Anywhere?

He listened in agitation, but the only sounds he could hear were the faraway noises of the crowds upstairs. The basement floor felt insulated, clammy, and abandoned. He might just have the place to himself. He’d have to risk… something.

Gritting his teeth, he gave the next classroom down a hard stare, daring it to contain anyone. Skittering over to it he peered urgently through the rectangular window and saw nothing but gloomy darkness, the thirty or so chairs in neat rows lit only by a row of oblong windows set high up on the far wall, showing the grassy verge of the commons outside. Feeling deprived of choice he took a last look around him, then, feeling like a horny Clark Kent ducking into the night editor’s office for all the wrong reasons, he opened the classroom and slipped inside, closing the heavy door firmly behind him.

Briefly he considered the ranks and files of student seating for his little task, but his gut told him the built-in desks might inhibit his range of motion. Instead he turned to the sturdy wooden table with the half-podium resting on top of it, and, behind it, the old-fashioned rolling upholstered chair meant for less energetic professors to park their carcasses in. He strode over to it and dropped his bag heavily on the floor next to it. He sat down for a brief second, readying himself for what he was about to do, then bounced up again to drop his jeans and half-soaked-through underwear before plopping his bare butt back down on the cold green naugahyde. His dick sprang up like a stepped-on rake, eager and ready.

As was already his habit he pulled off his vintage, ironically-worn Harry Styles tee as well and tossed it on the table next to the podium, leaving him shirtless and slightly chilly in the mostly subterranean classroom. He felt a pang of remorse every time Jack Reacher glared up at him from the tee shirt he’d spunked all over, catching the poor guy right in his pretty blue-gray peepers, and Holden didn’t want the polydactyl ex-One-Directioner giving him the same stink-eye as well. Anyway he already had enough laundry to do because of his irrepressible, weirdly large and altogether unstoppable junk. He stripped off his shirt whenever he wanked—if he remembered in time—and lately even kept a spare shirt with him wherever he went, just for emergencies like this.

Feeling self-conscious with his dick hard and tall like an extra-thick flagpole and his defined, alabaster-white chest and flat belly exposed to the nonexistent ghosts of the deserted (for now) basement, Holden got to work. He thanked god he was uncut and didn’t need to carry around lube, though these days he was producing so much precum he could probably produce tubes of the stuff and give every circumcised guy he knew a year’s supply. His hand was covered in goo already, and—fuck, he needed the paper towel dispenser presently secured behind that locked door. He’d deal with the mess later—the pleasure flooding through him with every long, hand-filling stroke was melting his brain and rocketing toward his umpteenth orgasm of the week.

He panted hard, focusing on balancing the extreme ecstasy and the necessity of finishing as soon as possible. Very soon it didn’t matter what he wanted—he was cumming, now, very hard. With an explosion of pleasure he started cumming in hard, jagged bursts, the spunk tearing out of him and splattering all over his pale chest and abs. The feel of the hot spend smacking across his pecs was still a new sensation and gave him an extra rush, intensifying the next few bursts even further. He spattered hot jizz first on his chin, then his cheek, and then—OWWWWW!! Fuck, that really did burn!

He squeezed his afflicted eye closed hard, annoyed and stimulated by the weirdness and irony of it. Turning away briefly from his still-spurting cock he detected a hint of motion out of the corner of his remaining eye. Whipping his head around and up, he caught a brief glimpse of a grinning face in the furthest oblong, ceiling-high window and—shit, a phone. Then they were gone, and Holden could see nothing but the bright blue noontide sky fringed with a low border of carefully-cropped lawn tickling the bottoms of the long, rectangular panes.

He sat frozen in the old-fashioned professorial chair, the ghost class of empty chairs arrayed silently before him, squinting balefully at the now-vacant window, his fist still choking his fat, still-hard Vesuvius. Bountiful quantities of spunk cooled rapidly on his hand, chest, and face as he put together what he had seen and his guts turned to ice. No, he thought, no no no no—!

He had to get out of there. Somehow, it would be okay if he just got out and ran and didn’t look back. He snatched up the discarded tee—sorry, Harry, he thought ruefully—and hurriedly wiped himself down before pulling the fresh one out of his bag, shrugging it on and buckling up his pants as fast as he could, his dick still half-hard and truculently in the way as he shoved it back in his cold, wet briefs and mashed it behind the straining fly of jeans. Stuffing the soiled shirt away at the bottom of his pack he zipped it closed, threw it on his shoulder, and ran. He sprinted through the basement, dashed up the stairs, and burst out of the alcove doors—only to gape at the surprised looks he got from the students still milling in the main hall.

They’re just staring because you’re behaving like a crazy man, he thought. He was aware of what he’d just done, of the bulge he was packing—shit, was there cum in his hair? Did he stink of spunk—could they all smell it? Overwhelmed and humiliated, Holden bolted.

Out in the campus he felt like a beacon. His left eye still stung like crazy and his blood felt like a boiling rush ripping through his arteries like a storm-swollen torrent—a Euphrates of sick fear, pleasure, and chagrin. With an effort he slowed to a walk, trying to act normal, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that everyone was as aware of him as he was of himself. They couldn’t know, not yet, but somehow he felt both dirty and notorious, and his girthy, slick, half-satisfied, clothing-constrained tool sang with the exhilaration of all the attention, be it real or imagined—his needy, fame-whore cock didn’t care either way.

The first thing Holden encountered coming in the back door of the frat after a bit of wandering (slightly calmer thanks to the long walk and various clusters of students not staring at him like he was a sex-beast) was Anthony lounging idly in the kitchen clad only in navy boxer-briefs, scrolling aimlessly through image threads on his phone.

Holden was used to the strapping, tousled-blond frat brother’s easy, unclothed state and the way it tended to expose his acres of casual brawn anytime of day or night. What he wasn’t used to was the iron-hard erection currently outlined in the snug, stretchy cotton of those body-hugging Fruit of the Looms.

Holden stopped short in the doorway, his own dick twitching and chubbing a little at the sight. “Dude,” he heard himself say. He’d seen evidence of countless hard-ons in the last six or seven weeks, but none quite as out in the open as this. Fuck—the head was actually peeking past the waistband by just the tiniest bit, barely a centimeter. A little bead of clear precum welled from the slit as he watched, sparking a tingle of aroused response up Holden’s spine.

Anthony looked up in surprise, not having heard him, then saw where Holden was staring and grinned. He glanced down at his fat, ten-inch tool, then beamed up at Holden again, to all appearances completely unabashed. “Dude, I know, another boner,” he said, like he was talking about the sweater catalogs in today’s junk mail. “I can’t keep up, you know?”

Holden was half-hard already and would very soon have to straighten out his own dick under his clothes. At least I’m wearing pants, he thought. He cleared his throat slightly. “Um, looks like you’ve escaped there a little,” he said tensely.

Anthony looked down again to check what he meant, and this time when he tilted his face back up to meet Holden’s gaze his creamy cheeks were very slightly pinked. “Yeah, it’s like—I’m kinda, well, leaky,” he said, his grin twisting crookedly. “Trying to keep my shorts dry, you know?” he added hopefully, like it was important to him that Holden understood his fluid-handling strategy.

Holden’s brows pressed together. “What, by letting it drip on the floor instead?” he asked, confused.

“Huh? No, man, see?” he said. With a quick, practiced motion he dipped his scrolling finger swiftly across the slit of his steel-hard dick, collecting the errant droplet of precum, then dramatically projecting his wide, red tongue from his mouth to lick the little light-catching globule of nature’s own sex-lubricant right off the tip of his finger. He turned his attention back to Holden, smirking wholesomely. “Mm, delicious,” he said cheekily. He held up the now-unsmeared finger as evidence of his boner-wrangling ingenuity, wiggling his thin, red-blond eyebrows.

Shiiit. Holden suppressed a shiver of raw cock-lust at this display, his own erection swelling painfully against the folds of his wet undies despite its own recent exertions. I should be filming this for my class project, he thought dazedly. No one else’s video excerpts would ever compete with the last ten seconds. Hell, he’d sure be replaying it later.

He needed to leave immediately. Even as he thought this, Anthony’s sweet brown eyes were flicking down toward Holden’s own crotch, as if the big, horny goof were sensing in him some kind of a kindred boner-licking fanatic. “Okay then, seems like you’ve got this… under control,” Holden said hurriedly.

He was already turning away as Anthony responded with a light chuckle and an “I know, right?”, hustling down the central downstairs hallway with the awkward gait of a man with a burgeoning erection discomposing his downward accoutrements. At the first opportunity he ducked into one of the short, blunt side-passages with a narrow door leading to one of the little club rooms on either side—checking first to make sure his fellow probies weren’t groping each other in the shadows first. He leaned against the back corner of the darkened recess and quickly began to wrench his uncooperative cock out of its tangle and force it to lie straight along his hip crease where it belonged, even gummy with old cum as the little cock-furrow was. I should just cement it there, he thought morosely. Maybe if enough cum hardens around it it’ll be stuck in place forever.

He was giving himself a moment to collect his thoughts and figure out what to do next when he heard voices just around the corner and stilled. It was Huan and Hank, who over the last several weeks had become practically inseparable. They were talking excitedly as usual.

“I can’t believe how many views the Wexler Wanker is getting!” Hank was saying. “There’s even a mosaic-censored version on YouTube!”

“No way, really?” Huan gushed. “That’s so cool! I should text my brothers in Anaheim and see if they’ve seen it yet.”

Holden’s blood ran cold. Already? Fuck, there’s viral and then there’s instant world domination. He tried to push himself further into the corner of the gloomy recess and listened guiltily. Weirdly, his erection throbbed, like he was actually getting crazy-turned on by the hot shame of being exposed jerking himself off on the internet for a billion people to watch.

A sudden vision of the upcoming charity strip show flashed in his head, his wank now mixed in with the mob of students and supporters cheering him on live on stage, and he shook with cringe.

“Anyone figure out who it is yet?” Huan asked.

“Lots of theories,” Hank said eagerly, like he might have a few himself. “Too bad the face is cut off like that. But the body’s nice, someone is bound to recognize it.”

“Right?” Huan agreed.

“I saw a subreddit post arguing he’s got to be a redhead. I think that was just from the coloring though.”

“He’s so tight,” Huan remarked reverently. He sounded like—shit, were they looking at the video right now? His cock flexed and shifted, loving the attention as usual. Was that him, for real? Was he… “tight”? He caressed his flat abs unconsciously through the spare Magic Mike tee-shirt he’d had to don (another gift from his sarcastic sister).

“And hung,” Hank added. “Look at that pipe, man!”

Huan was suddenly urgent. “Hank, I gotta—”

“I know, me too.”

They bustled past him in a rush with phones in hand, thankfully not looking left into the little recess. A second later they were pounding up the main stairway at a gallop toward the privacy of their tiny shared bedroom.

Holden knocked his head back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes, panting silently. His big cock was raging hard, his balls tight and ready. Was he relieved not to have been identified, or disappointed? Either way he definitely needed another bout of relief as much as his two fellow newbies did, but he decided to try to hold out a while longer before giving in. Maybe Anthony had the right idea, just dealing with being hard and horny and going about your business like that’s the normal everyone had to deal with.

The way things had been going, if he truly took time out to toss himself off and cover his chest and face with cum every time he was hard and hot around here lately, he’d never get a damn thing done the whole rest of the semester.

After that, Holden decided to try distracting himself mapping out the logistics of his compulsory video shoot. It occurred to him belatedly as he left his hiding place that he should clear the filming and interviews with the officers of the frat. Questioning a few of the random older frat brothers lounging in the big front room—clothed and acting fairly normal, thankfully, though Amin’s eyes were clearly on the lanky Loren texting animatedly in the corner and not the high-end laptop on the coffee table in front of him—revealed that Dave had been seen heading down to the frat-chapter office downstairs, directly below the great room, a mysterious space Holden so far had never seen.

Thus he found himself a moment or so later briskly thumping down the narrow basement stairs, holding to his vow to ignore his thick, insistent erection until it was no longer possible to do so as best he could, all things considered. Two quick lefts brought him to a narrow door stenciled with the words CHAPTER OFFICE in old-fashioned gold leaf. He knocked. No answer. He tried the knob. It turned.

Hesitating a moment, Holden decided there was no rule he knew of excluding him from his own fraternity headquarters. The house was his, he’d been told after he’d evaded the cull, though doubtless there were nuances to that edict he would learn with experience. He pushed the door open and walked into the room, closing the door silently behind him.

The ceilings in the large office were surprisingly high. In the absence of windows the room was lit with several standing floor lamps, giving the long chamber a moody, slightly noir feel. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the walls were all completely covered floor to ceiling with historical photographs—mostly group shots of past house cohorts going back at least a century, it seemed, with a few formal portraits and some random candids mixed in.

As Holden’s gaze skimmed the panoply of photos on the wall nearest him, to the left of the door, it struck him that most of the images were twins: in each case a single oblong frame was matted in black to yoke two squarish group shots side by side. That seemed a bit peculiar to him. He would have expected a single photo for each year, with the entire membership posed en masse for a formal record of that year’s “class.” That was the way they’d handled things for the Otter’s Grove High School Glee Club, though that institution’s longevity stretched back only to the 1970s, not the 1870s. He would have thought the older organization would have been more likely to consolidate images, if only to save on wall space.

Something about these pics was off, though. He peered closer at one set, his eyes widening as he took in just what he was looking at. It was two black and white images paired in a frame, like the others. Both showed the same group of a dozen or so fit-looking young men, posed for a group shot, though not as conventionally as he would have expected. The left one, interestingly enough, showing the brothers in rugby attire complete with helmet, pads, and ball, the latter having a proud capital phi carefully stenciled on its surface. The image on the right, meanwhile, had the same brothers done up as male ballet dancers, a company of Nureyevs in old-fashioned mustaches. The real shocker, however, and what had Holden physically, heatedly reacting to these antiquated likenesses, was that in both cases each and every one of them was naked from the waist down—and, even more arrestingly, they were, to a man, completely, utterly, shamelessly erect.

Fascinated and unexpectedly aroused, he examined the diptych more closely. The left-hand image was captioned in knock-out on-negative hand-lettering “The Cursèd Corsairs”; under that, smaller, were the words “Rugby Showdown, Nov. 1926.” Its opposite number, marked “L’Après-midi d’un faune” (had they performed the actual ballet, or just taken it as a theme?) bore the slightly later date of May 1927. As he mulled over the reasoning behind the paired images, not just here but as an apparent theme for the entire history of the fraternity as laid out before him, the first thing that occurred to him, almost instinctively, was of a progression. He looked between the images closely, singling out individuals for proof of his hunch.

There was one distinctive cheery-looking fellow that was easy to find in both shots. His looks and center-parted hair were not especially remarkable, but his erect cock commanded attention: startlingly thick at the base, it tapered so dramatically to the comparatively narrow, uncircumcised glans it looked almost like a flesh-colored trowel was erupting from his meticulously trimmed crotch. It was already large surrounded by sporting-gear in the earlier plate, but in the later pic it was patently even larger, nuzzling the fuzzy skin well north of the dark navel it had barely reached in the first shot. He looked a notch buffer, too, as though he’d spent the year training for a career in pugilistics, but the eye-grabber was his equipment. It was clear to Holden that Mr. Trowel-Cock here had added a solid inch in length between November and May, and a proportionate amount at least in girth.

Holden knew he should have been taken aback by this revelation, but the truth was he had known something like this was happening—he just hadn’t let himself think about it. If anything, that was the overriding mentality of the whole frat. His house-brothers were either not noticing or not caring that their cocks and libidos were slowly growing more and more out of control, just as had been the case for every iteration of Phi Epsilon Lambda since time immemorial. The mechanism was undetermined—for all he knew every orgasm produced a minute escalation in size, need, and productivity—but the perception-opacity of the phenomenon was conspicuously obvious.

Even as he stared at the proof he was having trouble focusing on the idea. Meanwhile, his rational mind was throwing every red flag it could find—not just because there was an unknown and apparently very lewd force acting on him and everyone else in this house, but even more because the real revelation of his discovery, and a spot-check of diptychs from randomly sampled years up and down the wall confirmed this, was that his cohort, the men who were a part of the frat at this very moment, were growing much, much faster than any previous year.

Every past group had gained an inch or so, inch and a half tops, over the course of a nine-month school year. Holden knew—knew, however much he didn’t think about it—that his tool had added an inch and half, maybe two inches, just since he’d gotten here. And it obviously wasn’t just him, it was all of them. Everyone’s packages were bigger and bulkier, everyone’s need to cum was already red-zoning… and it was still only October.

Something was incredibly wrong, and not only had nobody noticed—nobody would notice, even as their hard-ons started to get literally out of hand. He might be the only one in the frat able to hunt down what was going on and stop it before their dicks broke through the fucking roof of the frat.

He huffed. The biggest mystery was probably why all of this was turning him on more intensely than any porno had ever done for him. Maybe that was what was helping him beat the perception filter: knowing about the Effect was driving him close to the edge of a monumental climax, despite first-hand awareness from multiple instances that day alone of just how much all of this was a very bad thing and would make his life more and more inconvenient and torturous in the weeks and months to come.

He was sick, he thought wryly. Sick, and hard, and in desperate need of a serious and devoted blow job.

“Looking for ancestors?” asked a familiar voice.

Holden whirled to find that Jamie, his ripped, obsessive floormate and (he remembered) the fraternity treasurer, had slipped into the room while he was engrossed in the photos. It was a large space, but Jamie’s intensity seemed to fill it, and after everything being in a confined space with the perfectly-muscled giant in his loose, peekaboo tank and tight black shorts drove his arousal to hadron-collider intensity.

Jamie’s actual words barely penetrated, and to the extent that they did—a very late reminder that Holden’s grandfather and father were somewhere on this wall, presumably with their dicks out in showing off their house-induced “before” and “after”—the relevant concepts were quickly boxed up and buried somewhere Holden would never find them. Holden’s attention was all on Jamie’s amazing body and the fact that his shorts seemed even more packed than he remembered. His eyes seemed to drill through him, removing all remaining inhibitions.

Jamie was looking at him expectantly. Remembering why he was here with an effort, he babbled something about the video project and the need to talk to a couple of the guys about their college experience. Jamie nodded curtly.

“Sounds good. You can do me, if you want,” he said.

Holden blinked at him. He barely had the brain power to play “innuendo or not” like he was always doing with Costas. But Jamie, unlike his Sasquatch pledgemaster, always said what he meant.

“Yeah?” Holden said uncertainly.

Jamie’s eyes dropped abruptly to Holden’s quivering hard-on, so obvious in his pants he might as well have been as naked as his rugby-kitted forebears. “Fuck, Wyatt,” Jamie seethed, “you look as huge as I feel.”

Then he was in front of him. Jamie spared him a look so intense Holden felt stripped naked, before dropping abruptly to his knees and doing it for real, prizing open Holden’s fly and engulfing his raging, fat erection as soon as it sprang free.

“U-uuu-u-u-u-u-hhh-h-h,” Holden rasped. As pleasure flooded through him his mind whited out completely, leaving all of his thoughts and worries for another time.

Holden was standing by his desk in the middle of measuring his dick, every particle of his attention on the thick, flushed erection in front of him, when someone suddenly started banging on the door to his frathouse bedroom, startling him badly.

“Wyatt! Time for strip show practice, newbie!” It was Costas’s deep, resonant voice, sounding as usual like the purring of a big cat even when he was giving orders. “Get your pasty ass down to the back deck!”

Holden grabbed his chest as though the press of his palm could physically soothe his thumping heart, half-crumpling his makeshift measuring tape in the process. He was currently wearing only an undershirt, so his pasty ass was, indeed, on display, almost as though Costas could see through the door. It was impossible for him not to think, Fuck! Does he know what I’m doing?

His cock, meanwhile, bucked at all the ruckus but didn’t quail an iota. If anything, it got even more rigid knowing the hairy six-foot-seven pledgemaster, a man who managed to look, sound, and even (at close proximity) smell like the personification of raw, animal sex, was just the other side of a flimsy piece of wood barely as tall as he was and not a whole lot wider. “J-just a minute!” Holden called nervously.

“Hurry up,” Costas drawled, half slinky catamite calling his roué to bed, half drill sergeant on his last nerve. “Unless you want me to come in there and drill you one on one…”

Fuck, was that a threat, or a line from a porno? Holden wished he could figure the guy out. Ten weeks in, and the sex-voiced, muscle-shirted Sasquatch was as opaque to him as he’d been on day one. “Five minutes!” he promised desperately.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Costas growled back from the hall. He sounded distinctly playful, like that mountain cat had a big ball of yarn to bat around. “See you soon, newbie!” Then he heard footsteps as Costas thumped down the upstairs hall to the little room at the opposite end where the frat’s other two probies, Hank and Huan, were most likely fucking their brains out. Sure enough, the pounding came again a moment later, more distant this time, eliciting a pair of just-audible yips of surprise from the preoccupied occupants.

While the big man rumbled through the same routine with his increasingly amorous co-pledges, Holden forced himself to focus on his own situation. Carefully, he laid out the inch-wide handmade paper measuring tape across the surface of his desk and started working on flattened the crumpled bits. He wished he had the real thing from his mom’s sewing kit, but this would have to do. Once the kinks he’d just put in it were mostly smoothed out, he picked it back up and, holding down his iron-hard, barely-movable dick with one thumb, he draped the strip over the length of his shaft, pinning it at the base with his other thumb and extending his fingers to shift it a bit so the far end would fall exactly over the middle of red, turtlenecked glans. Like a soaring Andean waterfall, he thought.

He stared at the little black handwritten numbers, his heart still thumping in his ears. That… can’t be right.

A little dazed, he checked the zero-point under his thumb to make sure it hadn’t slipped backward and artificially inflated the reading. No dice. If anything, the edge of the rough-and-ready measuring strip was slightly too far forward. He raked his gaze up the strip itself, eyeing the felt-tip markings skeptically. They had to be off. Right? Okay, so, yeah, he’d checked them against his ruler three times, before and after taping together the two slips of scissor-trimmed printer paper, but… but…

He wanted to giggle hysterically. What about my butt? With all the sex in the air around here and the constant parsing for double-entendres with everyone, especially the stone-faced, sultry-toned Costas, he was now actually at the the point of snarking back at his own panicked inner monologue. Because the real thing he needed to be thinking was just too strange. There was no way he had a hard, fat, barely tamable monster dick that somehow topped out at just over fifteen fucking inches. There was no way. He knew his dick, he knew reality (or thought he did), and it just wasn’t—

The noisy bustling of the fucktwins, Hank and Huan, hurrying excitedly past his door toward the back stairs momentarily distracted him from his brain-stall. Wait—what had Costas said? Rehearsal today was on the back deck. The back deck, overlooking the yard and in view of the sun room. The deck… where any brother in the frat who happened to be home and bored could stroll out and watch.

All their previous rehearsals had been held in the big room in the basement where only the fucktwins and Costas had been privy to Holden’s flares of sustained arousal and their unavoidably visible consequences—Hank and Huan ogling and whispering, Costas pretending not to notice as he instructed them in the required choreography even as his own package swelled and tautened in his snug little lace-up shorts. This time, Holden and his dick wouldn’t be nearly so secluded. He’d be on view, subjected to the admiring or deprecating stares of potentially every damned hunk in the frat—and there was no way his dick wouldn’t respond to that. Not the way it had been acting lately, with his days a deluge of hard-ons that, once triggered, never deflated without a serious orgasm. Or two.

He glared down at his dick, the measuring tape still laid across it like the endless train of a royal bride. He didn’t understand this thing. Mortification was supposed to be a boner-killer. Wasn’t it? He’d gotten rid of countless hard-ons in middle school and high school just by imagining himself on stage at an assembly wearing nothing but his bright blue Superman briefs, all of his fellow students in the audience gaping and whispering at his unbearably humiliating predicament. When he’d first heard about the strip show, he’d counted on this phenomenon to curb his potential embarrassment. He’d thought, Well, at least at a strip show there’s a built-in boner-deflater.

But whatever had been expanding his dick by inches a month had somehow unearthed a truly horrifying kink: his junk loved being big and insatiable, and loved even more any prospect of causing him abject misery with its hugeness and its hardness and its implacable need to spit considerable amounts of hot, salty seed. It seemed almost like it had its own motivation for getting bigger, like that soul-deep discomfiture and Holden being forced to deal with it was in itself the actual driving force of its evil plan. Even now it was too big to ignore, too big to tuck aware along the crease of his hip. He wouldn’t be able to cover it up much longer. It was already pushing past his waistband at every opportunity, trying to show itself, to make Holden deal with it as publicly and humiliatingly as possible.

He squeezed his eyes closed and forced that line of thinking to a stop. Anthropomorphizing his huge wang wouldn’t get him anywhere, much less imagining it as the evil mastermind of its own escalation. What he was dealing with here was effect, not cause. This was being done to him.

Not just him, either. Everyone in the frat was more slutty, more sexualized, more prone to showing big, straining packages and random stiff, pipe-like bulges in their shorts or jeans or sweats; though it was hard to escape the impression that he was somehow leading the pack in incremental growth. He was now sure, though, that it wasn’t just him. His dick wasn’t making it all happen—but something was. Or someone. All this was too targeted to be random. There was a means, and a mechanism. There had to be a something, or a someone, or both, behind this effect. And he would find out what it was.

Letting out a breath, he opened his eyes and took in his fifteen-inch problem. He twitched the thumb holding the tape to one side, letting the long paper strip flutter to the floor. Then he removed his other thumb, releasing it from its straining, slightly painful lowered stance. Instantly his cock sprang up to a near-vertical state, splattering his face and chest with a few droplets of warm precum as it went, like a sex-juice trebuchet.

He frowned, considering its new position. It used to be that his hard-ons listed to one side, making the tuck-away along his hip easier; but with the steady growth in length, girth, and need had come an increasing inclination toward the straight-up vertical, as if to somehow maximize visibility in every way and along every parameter. His hard, slick-headed erection was almost at eleven o’clock now, and he had a feeling high noon was coming.

The analogy reminded him uncomfortably of his promise to Costas, that he’d be downstairs in five. The thing was… he couldn’t go very well down there like this. Turning his pasty but quite firm ass around he plumped himself on the edge of his neatly made bed, a position that allowed him to stare down his oppressor, eye to eye. He huffed silently, slightly annoyed at the inevitability of this moment, as his left hand loosely wrapped around the base of the warm, thick pleasure-pillar weighing down his groin in a preparatory grip. There was one surefire way he knew to bring about a quick and copious climax in record time—one he hadn’t got the tiniest bit tired of yet and, from all evidence so far, clearly never would. Opening his mouth wide, he bent over, slipping his lips down and around the extremely delighted head and upper shaft of his huge, hot, inexplicably, relentlessly growing cock. Then he went to work.

As a futile exercise in microprocrastination Holden took the front stairs instead of the back when he went down, still tasting his load in the back of his throat and trying to decide whether he was getting used to the flavor of it yet or not. He was busy making a ranked list in his head of things that tasted vile but people ended up liking them anyway (provisionally posting his own gooey, high-pressure spunk somewhere between his dad’s nightly Löwenbräu and fish tacos) when he stepped into the kitchen on the way back through the house and stopped dead in his tracks.

Anthony was in there alone. The naturally-muscled strawberry blond was sitting at the round table wearing nothing but sky-blue boxer briefs, eating Apple Jacks in milk from a big bowl and reading something for a literature assignment on his tablet. The giant-sized cereal box and the gallon jug of two-percent stood parked nearby, both left open and ready in case the need for replenishment arose. None of that was in any way unusual for their resident casual exhibitionist, or anything Holden hadn’t by now seen a dozen times at least.

What was new about this tableau how obvious it was even in passing that the man was hugely hard in his clingy blue undershorts. This was made abundantly apparent thanks to a convergence of several Anthony-esque factors: the way Anthony was sitting upright a little pushed back from the table, his customary splay-legged posture, and most of all from the fact that he was slowly and shamelessly stroking his massive slab of an erection one-handed through the soft cotton of his Fruit of the Looms as he read, all while he was mindlessly scooping up spoonfuls of milk-swimming sugary breakfast cereal with the other.

Holden froze, gaping at the scene. “Dude!” he hissed.

Anthony looked up from his reading with a grin. “Hey, newbie!” he said, setting down his spoon but not slowing his slow, through-the-cloth handjob even a little. “How’s it going! Ready for practice?” He flicked a glance down at the impressive package Holden had managed to get stuffed away after his latest autofellatio session, then back up with an even wider smile. He winked, but not salaciously, Holden thought—more like the older brother teasing a younger sibling over something he was nervous about. Like his first paper route, or a class presentation on Protagoras.

For once the strip show was the last thing on Holden’s mind. “Dude, what are you doing?” he half-whispered, not wanting Anthony to get caught humping his own hand in the common areas.

Anthony, however, seemed oblivious. He nodded toward the tablet, still stroking. “Russian Lit assignment,” he said. “Here’s a tip for you,” he confided sagely. “Ever have to choose between Dostoevsky and Tolstoy, pick Tolstoy.” He cast the tablet an annoyed glance, all while his left hand pistoned unhurriedly on his cock like a low-gear automatic hand-job machine.

“No,” Holden said, “I mean—” When Anthony looked confused Holden looked around to check they were still alone, then tipped his chin toward Anthony’s lap and the activities taking place there. His own package, awakened slightly by Anthony calling attention to it a minute ago, was now responding to the fantasy-inspired (or fantasy-inspiring) scenario. This caused a bit of discomfort, as his junk was packed in rather tightly. It seemed the proportional difference between the size of his flaccid and erect states was shrinking at the same minutely-but-steadily pace as the overall dimensions were increasing.

Anthony looked down at himself and his busy hand, then grinned back up at him again, his reddish-gold brows slightly lifted.

“Dude,” he said happily, “I am so horny, if I stopped what I was doing do go someplace else and stroke I would never get anything done. Plus, if I keep at it like this, I can save the cumming for when I really want to,” he added. “It’s, like, tantric, or whatever.” His grin twisted, hinting that he was at least slightly chagrined by the situation at some superficial level; but overall his expression told Holden he meant every word and considered his reasoning flawless.

Holden nodded slowly. “Makes sense… I guess,” he said uncertainly.

“Right?” Anthony winked again and went back to his cereal and his dreaded Dostoevsky. His left hand seemed to speed up very slightly.

“Okay,” Holden said awkwardly, “I’ll, uh, leave you to it, then.”

Anthony grunted around a mouthful of cinnamon-toasty goodness, and Holden hurried out of the room. He was still digesting Anthony’s behavior when he passed the small game room, the door to which was a few inches ajar, and heard voices. He held up when he heard his own name.

“—going so well, best ever,” one guy said. He couldn’t recognize who it was—he was bad with voices, and Mario Kart was on full volume. “You were so right about upping the stakes this year—and still it’s like no one in the frat even notices the crazy shit happening to them. So fucking wild.”

“Except us, of course. D’you see that Wyatt kid?”

“He is blowing up,” the second voice agreed over the high-energy music and car horns. “I knew we were right to induct h—hey, watch it!”

“Ha ha, outa my way, loser. Man, he must be jerking off all the time.”

“That would explain it. Hey, check this out!”

“No fair, twat! Fuck, imagine when he finds out what happens when someone blows him.”

“Right? Hey—pause it a sec, I need juice. You want—”

Holden started, jolted out of his passive eavesdropping by the threat of the expositor’s sudden lack of recumbence. Not wanting to get caught skulking about listening to gossip about himself, Holden got his feet moving and quickly exited the vicinity, deeply preoccupied and perplexed by what he’d heard.

Turning a corner, he nearly ran face-to chest into Costas.

“There you are,” Costas rumbled, planting a hand firmly on Holden’s shoulder and turning him around. “I’ve been looking for your Casper-white ass.” As Costas propelled him from behind in the general direction of the back yard, Holden’s worries about what his senior frat-brothers’ cryptic yet strangely ominous banter was momentarily displaced by self-consciousness about his supremely alabaster buttocks. He made a mental note to covertly look into tanning salons in town that specialized in pallid male behinds. Maybe he just needed a nice little carefully-hidden bottle of butt bronzer. That might be enough.

As it turned out, holding rehearsal on the back deck didn’t attract the handful of idle spectators Holden had feared. No, he thought, this was well past a handful and verging on a crowd. Practically the whole frat was gathered in the back yard—or looking on from front-row berths in the sun room like box-holding bigwigs at a pro football game. All the officers were in the latter group, it looked like. He spotted frat secretary Dave by the glass with an iced tea; he tossed Holden an encouraging smile as his gaze flitted over him. Near him stood the laconic, wiry-muscled prexy, Vitek, lips pursed and hands in his pants pockets. Holden knew little about the stone-faced senior other than that he usually wore black tees with white slacks and that he was a top-ranked racquetball fiend of high repute. Costas was there too, leaving the rehearsal to Armin until the joint post-mortem afterwards. A half-dozen or so guys were crowding around them, laughing or smirking at the antics outside. Many more were out on the lawn, plus a few boyfriends/fuckbuddies/fwbs from outside the frat mixed in to boot. All were clapping and wolf-whistling as they enjoyed the fucktwins making fools of themselves to Lady Gaga’s “Born this Way,” which Armin’s portable sound system was currently blasting at concrete-shifting volume.

Holden hated everything about this. He hated being made to do it, hated his costume, hated that in a week, at the actual event, his audience would exponentially multiply from a small bevy of his fraternity brothers into a campus-commons-filling throng of rowdy, hooting college students all cheering for his flesh. And they would be, too. Holden sighed. Maybe what he hated most of all was that he was actually good at this shit. For a kid from nowhere who up until recently had never seen a strip show outside of a few episodes of The Sopranos, Holden had somehow dug down deep and found moves, poise, and showmanship, almost as though he’d been fated for a life of whipping off his clothes for an appreciative crowd. If he’d been a terrible dancer people might have ignored him; or, if he was really lucky, they’d’ve cut short his act and booed him off the stage. Holden wasn’t so fortunate. Everyone was going to be looking, and wanting more of where that came from.

He glanced down at himself and grimaced. He definitely did hate the costume. For some reason, maybe because he came from a rural background, the two brothers in charge of the event—pledgemaster/Sasquatch Costas and sultry-but-bitchy choreographer Armin—had decided he should be a cowboy, like his family owning a barnful of surly dairy cattle somehow turned him into Tom Mix. Logical or no, here he was decked out in a black satin Roy Rogers-style shirt; a suede vest complete with fringe; and black pants with snaps down the side so they could be dramatically torn away at just the right moment. Boots would be too much of a pain to get off in mid-act, so his feet were bare, adding that factor to the mix. Up top, of course, was a white Stetson—borrowed from Vitek, someone had said, the eerily perfect sizing making him wonder about the odds of their heads being the same size; and underneath it all was a flimsy thong, neon green for “hilarious” contrast with his outfit.

The most unnerving part was the way his junk-sock had been feeling more and more… insufficient… as the rehearsals progressed and the night of the actual event got closer and closer. At least, Holden could console himself that this wasn’t a true, bona fide strip show. The thong would stay on for the entirety of the act—though it was definitely hiding less and less as the weeks went by. Even his cowboy shirt was feeling a bit tight today, like his whole body was part boner.

What am I doing? he thought morosely. What is even happening to my life?

“Hey! Holden!” Armin hissed from right behind to him, just “offstage” at the sliding doors leading onto the deck. “Eyes on the show!”

Right. He was supposed to be critiquing his fellow strippers, so that he could catalog any mistakes and avoid them in his own act. He wanted to tell Armin this was a charity show, not Magic Mike… though as he scanned the yard it occurred to him that the bristling, sunlit muscles of practically everyone in the audience, ranging from hard and defined to deliciously ripped, almost made it seem like most of his frat was there auditioning to replace Channing Tatum. He noticed Anthony had wandered out after finishing his late-afternoon breakfast, his perfect, naturally built bod looking like he was coasting for life on all that weightlifting he’d done in the womb. Shockingly, his slablike stiffie was still unmissable in his sky-blue briefs as he cheered Hank and Huan on from a spot right next to the white-haired swim jock Loren. Worse, to his increasing discomfiture Holden realized that the goofy paranudist’s huge pipe-like erection wasn’t the only long, hard bulge visible in the swath of more-or-less delectable onlookers. One of those power-bulges belonged to Jamie, Anthony’s high-strung, gym-groomed opposite, standing a few feet away. Holden actually spotted the rose-tinted head of Jamie’s erection nosing past the waist of his jeans as the man lifted his tank-top to scratch his chiseled abs. Then the shirt dropped and Jamie was banging his hands together for Hank and Huan, comically scowling the whole time.

Fu-u-u-uck, he thought, as his own junk responded to all of the concentrated sexiness of the assembled hunk-brothers. The damn thing was downright eager to swell up to full hardness at the slightest provocation, and he cringed as the tell-tale warning of his skin growing hot washed over him. No, no, no, he panicked. He tried filling his head with unsexy things—vomit, tornados, cats playing with yarn—but each turned into something sybaritic. Sexy EMTs… a sexy firefighter with smoldering eyes unearthing him from the rubble… a sexy, muscular anthro jaguar stalking toward him in some lush and lurid jungle, his thick tail twitching back and forth behind him….

“Get ready! You’re up!” Armin barked, breaking into his thoughts. The whole frat was applauding and cheering as Hank and Huan bowed, bare-assed in matching gray athletic supporters—they’d gone with performing as the Manning brothers for some reason, in helmets, shoulder-pads, and tight tear-away football pants in the appropriate colors. The audience had loved it, and the two twunky hams were obeising extravagantly for the crowd, eating up the praise.

When they turned, beaming and ebullient, Holden was shocked to see that the boys were both extremely erect in their jocks. The two probies weren’t nearly as hung as Holden was, clearly, but there were still three or four inches of raging erection shoving past the wide elastic of the jockstraps, impossible to miss and as proud as can be.

He was still staring at tiny-waisted Hank’s pink, circumcised cock and the way its head seemed to be trying to shove into the man’s navel when he felt a firm nudge at his shoulder-blade and he stumbled a step forward onto the deck. He was still distracted by Hank’s navel-fucking and very visible hard-on, and when Armin started up the backing track he’d picked for him—Joe Cocker’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On,” naturally—he kept going, more or less on autopilot.

He passed the two excited newbies, Huan winking at him while Hank gave him a grinning split-second once-over. “Looking tight, Hol’!” Hank said approvingly. Then they were gone before Holden even had a chance to say “Don’t call me ‘Hole’,” and the moment had come and he was alone at the front of the deck in front of the happy, hollering crowd.

His hips were already moving to the beat of their own accord. Fuck, he thought as his dick swelled and chubbed against his flimsy hidden thong, his male-obsessed id getting off on every single part of this situation. Fuck, I am so fucked.

His body knew the moves and he performed his entire act by rote, the whole time feeling like doom was hanging over him as his growing, unstoppable arousal made disaster more and more inevitable. Making it worse was the crowd of hot men around him egging him on, whooping and hollering as first the vest came off, then the buttons on his cowboy shirt opened one by one, revealing his hard chest and his tight, carved abs (when had he gotten so cut?). Every reveal of manflesh whipped them further into a frenzy, and Holden was swept up in it, barely in control of his own sexual agitation. He was working himself up minute by minute, sweating and giving it his all, at some level knowing he might as well given them as much of a show as he could. Like a condemned man playing to the crowd on the scaffold, he thought, slightly hysterically.

Amid all the hotties in his frat and their guests wildly rooting him on, Holden found himself fixating on the stone-faced Jamie, his attention telescoping to that handsome, stone- carved face and those heated, fathomless gray eyes boring into him felt like lasers igniting black stone into blistering magma, stoking a thousand sunlike fires inside him. After weeks of few interactions apart from the torrid encounter in the photo room, all it took was having all of Jamie’s attention pouring into him for Holden to realize that this tightly-wound gym-obsessive with the loose tank tops and the barely hidden boner might just be the human manifestation of raw, unrestrained sexual need.

Holden knew it was going to happen before it happened. His vest was gone. His shirt was cast aside. He was nearing his cue. He could feel the heat building up in him like a volcano—and, like a volcano, no one and nothing could stop it. Sure enough, as he yanked away the pants to a roar of approval, time seemed to quiver. His thong held for one second… two seconds… then, bam, all at once it exploded off of him, freeing his trapped cock to jump up and finish hardening to a rigid eleven o’clock vertical faster than you could say “public erection.”

If Holden had expected sudden, stunned silence, he didn’t get it. If anything it was the opposite, and the cheers and shouts only escalated as he ground toward his big finish. When it came the culmination of the music, the crowd’s raucous enthusiasm, and his own half-excited, half-horrified overstimulation all crashed together to bring about a literal hands-free climax, as if the whole thing had been planned from the outset to end in blazing, orgasmic fireworks. As he shot his load again and again in stunned, exhilarated disbelief, his arms spread and ejaculating dick tall and proud, the crowd—brothers and strangers alike—gave him nothing but noisy, contented approval, as if everything that had just happened was perfectly normal, and no more obscene than Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey doing a bit of lascivious gyrating to piss off the squares.

This was crazy, and there was no way out of the crazy, Holden thought manically as he stood there, panting and sweaty. All he could do was bow, trying not to stab himself with his still after-orgasming dick as he doffed his Stetson at last for the audience. He then beat a hasty retreat, redonning his Stetson and wondering what the hell planet he was on.

As he passed Armin, still naked except for the hat, the grumpy choreographer nodded. “Not bad,” he said. “Do it just like that on the night and we might just stand a chance at some serious bank.”

Holden almost stumbled, not daring to look down at the massive, heavy erection currently smearing warm cum onto the lower reaches of his sweat-dampened left pec. “You want—that?” he asked incredulously in a quavering voice, jerking his thumb behind him. “Just like—that?”

Armin glowered, perplexed at his confusion. “You want to do it badly instead? Just… go shower and come back down for the post-mortem.”

Holden blinked, and Armin turned to the next dancer, a toned and gangly sophomore named Justin. As he headed into the house and hurried up the back stairs, his steel-hard erection barely moving despite its spectacular release mere moments before, Holden had the feeling that as strange as things were now, he hadn’t seen anything yet.

The upstairs bathroom was a strange amalgam of household and hostel, with a very domestic cream vanity and standard toilet in front and a surprisingly roomy five-by-six-foot shower stall where the tub would be in back, sectioned off by a frosted sliding door. Holden had just gotten the water to the temperature he liked, a few degrees short of scalding. He thought he should turn it colder and try getting rid of his lingering post-performance thrill-erection that way, but he was sweaty and cummy and only trusted actual hot water to get him clean. He was just stepping under the spray when the shower stall door slid open and Jamie, of all people, stepped in, naked and just as hard as Holden. He closed the door behind him and looked up, and Holden held in a gasp as those heated, rock-melting eyes pinned him all over again.

Jamie was a magnificent example of a body honed to absolute perfection, every swell of muscle and line of definition exquisite and perfectly judged. A sculptor could not have done better. With his idealized definition and proportions and total lack of body hair apart from the carefully trimmed ash-blond coif up top and a rigidly manscaped patch below, in the harsh amber light of the bathroom he really did seem to be carved from marble, or some form of eloquent living stone that flourished in the shape of finely striated deltoids and gracefully spreading latissimi dorsi. Lats you can see from the front, Holden thought—his favorite kind. Everything was impressive but proportional. The V shape from his square shoulders to his narrow waist was mesmerizing without being exaggerated, the development of his glutes and quads below giving him a slight second swell on the other side.

And then there were the abs. Holden had seen plenty of nice abs since he’d gotten to college, and he was noticing lately that his own were firming up and developing a bit of definition, but Jamie’s tight six-pack-plus were the first abs he’d seen that literally, genuinely looked chiseled from stone. He wanted to touch them and feel the flare of those lats under his hands, and given their location and state of undress it was occurring to him belatedly that he might get the chance.

Jamie’s lips shifted then, drawing his attention. He know those lips and how they felt around his dick—better than he should, he though, given their one encounter in the photo room weeks ago. It was so anomalous, it was almost like a dream… but then that was the point. He was pretty sure he had been dreaming about Jamie and how good he was at blowing him and how much they both loved the feel of Holden’s giant cock in Jamie’s talented, cum-hungry mouth. There had been a bunch of dreams, and lately he’d been waking up cumming hard, almost able to feel the lingering brush of Jamie’s tongue on his long, eager shaft.

The giant cock in question twitched, teasing Holden’s left nipple, and Jamie’s fiery stare flipped down to the obscene erection before lifting to meet Holden’s gaze again. He was standing closer to him in the stall now, really without Holden seeing him move. Their eyes fixed on each other, driving Holden’s lust. Jamie was maybe an inch shorter than Holden, but the sheer godliness of his muscles and the intensity of his demeanor dominated him.

Holden wished he’d gotten a better look at Jamie’s dick just now, they way Jamie had just blatantly admired his. Still, that quick look had told him a lot. Jamie’s dick was attractive and elegant, pointing straight out in front of him, long and thick with a slightly upward bend. In fact, Holden couldn’t help thinking that on a body that was so rigorously proportioned it was… out of scale. Again, it wasn’t as big as his—no one seemed to be, as though he were outpacing the entire pack, racing ahead of the peloton as though he were in a bid to win his fraternity’s secret and mysterious Tour de Phallus—but Holden reckoned it at a good twelve inches, and hefty in girth as well. He would lay any money these were not the perfect, body-proportionate dimensions Jamie had possessed when he’d stepped off the bus his first day at university.

Then… then Jamie, standing just that little bit closer still, was stroking Holden’s long, eleven-o’clock cock, as casual as a handshake; and Holden’s thoughts fritzed a little, like defective wiring in an old house.

“Jamie,” he whispered.

“I didn’t expect you to be such a good stripper,” Jamie said, and though he kept a straight face Holden was sure there was just the slightest hint of a sardonic tone in his voice. Holden blinked, eyeing the man in front of him closely as his lightly tanned skin acquired dapples of deflected water from the shower spray blasting onto Holden’s back. Holden found himself second-guessing his perceptions of the other man. Had he misdiagnosed the blond’s seemingly constant fury? Maybe there was something in the cast of his face, in his sharp jawline or the shape of his eyebrows maybe, that made him look angrier than he was. Still, there was no mistaking the heat of Jamie’s attention, or the way he devoted every particle of himself to whatever he was doing and to getting whatever he wanted.

Despite himself, Holden was fascinated. He wanted to watch Jamie work out, just to see him honing his body through a fusion of will and effort.

Jamie was still stroking him, and Holden swallowed, feeling like he was manually forcing his speech centers to work. Almost autonomically he raised a hand, letting it caress the rock-hard muscle of his other shoulder, on the other side from where Jamie was oh-so-nonchalantly attending to him. “Y-yeah?” he said. “You like the ending?”

Jamie’s full lips didn’t curve at all, but those angry eyebrows twitched as he gently spread pleasure up and down Holden’s shaft. “A bit cheeky,” he suggested.

Cheeky! A fifteen-inch erection and a public orgasm, and Jamie called it “cheeky”? This was out of control. Suddenly Holden felt very serious. “Dude, don’t you see it? S-something’s happening. Our c—” A huge wave of pleasure tore through him. His throat closed up and he couldn’t say the word. He voiced it in his mind. Cock. Our cocks. But it wouldn’t come out. He tried again. “Our… hm… they’re gr—” Again, his vocal chords seemed to seize up as a massive wave of pleasure shut him up. He couldn’t get the words out.

I can’t talk about it, Holden realized with horror. Whatever this is that’s affecting us, whatever my suspicions are, I’m not allowed to vocalize them. Not… allowed. The idea of this thing controlling his speech terrified him. What the hell? What the actual motherfucking hell?

Then Jamie said, “Let me help you with this.” Before Holden had even processed the words, the other man had bent his head down and was sliding the wide, sensitive head of Holden’s monster dick all the way back into his throat.

“Oh god!!” Holden cried out, his shout echoing off the tiles around him. His caresses instantly became an iron grip on Jamie’s shoulder as he was expertly fellated. Steam from the spray billowed around them. Jamie’s hand gently worked the bottom end of Holden’s touch-loving shaft, as deftly as a cello section supporting the soaring violins.

“Oh, god, Jamie,” Holden croaked. He felt his second orgasm in an hour rocketing toward him and said, “Unh—shit, Jamie, I’m going to cum again!”

Jamie stepped up his expert, manually-assisted blowjob, skillfully working Holden’s hard, insatiable cock with hand and mouth and tongue, and moments later Holden was flooded with unholy quantities of pure, unadulterated pleasure as another climax, even stronger than the one before, tore through him, sending gouts of hot cum surging up his cock and filling Jamie’s eager gullet. Jamie seemed to have to work hard to keep up with it all, but he was obviously determined to swallow every drop. Finally it was done and Holden was shaking, the dregs of his climax working through him. Jamie gave his buzzing, oversensitive cockhead a last lick and pulled off it with a pop.

Holden was still holding onto Jamie’s shoulder, at the moment grateful for the support. “Fuck, that was amazing,” he gasped. “It might actually go down now, I think.” He smiled, panting lightly, as Jamie wiped the cum off his lips with the back of his forearm, his throat still working as he swallowed down the last vestiges of Holden’s cum. “Sorry about al that. If only I didn’t jizz so much,” he said ruefully.

“Fuck that,” Jamie said, holding his stare with his usual intensity. He sounded angry again, or maybe it was just his temperament. Anything Jamie rejected, he rejected outright. “Besides, it’s good protein, I hear.”

With a face that serious Holden couldn’t remotely tell whether Jamie (a) was riffing on the usual joke that gym rats craved protein, which was why the gay ones sucked so much cock, or (b) really meant it and saw Holden as a useful supplier of muscle-building fuel. It would explain why he even came in here looking for a repeat of the blow job in the photo room, he thought, bemused. At least the ambiguity was, itself, kind of funny. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” Jamie said, pressing a hand to Holden’s firm, wet chest in a way that seemed almost affectionate. “Heck, I wish you came even more.”

A weird minute tingle filtered through Holden at those words, like a slight effervescence at the cellular level—almost as if his body were warning him that Holden’s inundation of cum in his belly somehow gave him this power to change him, however slightly. Holden, dazed from a wrenching second afterglow and everything else that had happened, wasn’t at all sure what to make of this.

Jamie was eyeing him, for the first time looking a bit uncertain, though his full-on iron-gray stare never wavered. “You kiss, Holden?” he asked.

“Uh, sure.”

Jamie slid his hand up behind Holden’s neck and pulled him in for a brief, athletic kiss that tasted of cum and, faintly, a hint of spearmint. Then he was gone, the shower door closing noisily after him, and Holden and his finally softening monster cock were left to ponder the strange state of the universe under the steamy-hot spray.

A week later the entire frat was tumbling back into the house, riding high from an extremely successful charity strip show. Possibly a record-breaker—Dave had checked his tablet on the way over as they’d all walked home en masse and confirmed that they’d raised more than twice last year’s take in pledges and transfers, to a general cheer. More was still coming in.

The most surreal part was how everyone was saying it was all down to the star of the show, Holden the sexy cowboy, whose onstage presence and ability to wow the crowd with his moves and his sheer physicality was capped by the awesome cathartic effect of his climactic “fireworks.” Alarmingly, Holden, working through his act on the improvised stage before hundreds of spectators, had found his horny, crowd-propelled release as inevitable as human lust itself, and the unstoppable release that had followed was possibly the most mortifying thing that had ever happened to him. Meanwhile the delighted throng had roared and cheered, drunk on mob ecstasy—which weirdly only made it worse, in Holden’s mind, like the precedent of this display would naturally lead to the expectation of even more self-abasement. In fact, this fear immediately realized in the form of the crowd loudly demanding an encore, which Holden, still hard and humiliated and with his chest, shoulders, and chin spattered with cooling cum, had somehow improvised as a quick line-dance duet with Armin, the dance major joining him on stage and matching him move for move like the pro he was.

As they poured through the main door to the house everyone wanted to clasp his shoulder or slap him on the back to congratulate him. Holden, thrumming with shame and the fact that he was still rigidly hard after the spectacle of the show, the wait through the two acts after him, and the ten-minute walk home down College Avenue, took the buffeting with barely an acknowledgement beyond a weak smile and a few mumbles. He’d redonned his jeans and sneakers but remained shirtless, the black satin top he’d worn now buried in Armin’s costume bag along with his tearaway pants and the remains of his replacement thong.

He had, of course, left his hat on, as required by his backing music and his jubilant house-brothers. Word had even come from Vitek that he was free to keep the Stetson, though in his present dark mood this felt irrationally less like acknowledgement of Holden’s cowboy-themed celebrity than the stolid prexy not wanting the headgear back now that Holden had done what he had done.

He just wanted to be alone, but he seemed to bring a portion of the guys with him as he mounted the stairs, like iron filings following a magnet. At the door to his room he managed to convince them to go down to the basement and join the others for the preplanned celebratory keg party—he’d be down, too, in a few minutes, after he cleaned up. After more bro back-slaps and grinning shoulder-grabs, and disconcertingly moony looks of adulation from the fucktwins, the little crowd headed back downstairs, babbling amongst themselves about all the acts and crowd comments and how the spring show would be even more awesome, and Holden was finally alone—for now. He closed the door to his room and leaned heavily against it, his bare shoulder blades welcoming the solid feel of the hard wood, and tried to make sense of what he was feeling.

His thoughts ran in circles for a moment, and the cum on his chest was getting colder. Sighing, Holden grabbed a towel from a built-in peg by the door, hanging the hat there instead, and went over to the closet and opened it, using the full-length mirror to start cleaning himself up. There was cum all over his upper torso. And beyond—he noted a glob on his left ear and swiped at it angrily. His erection remained stubborn and unmoving, still so hard that it was actually making a slight dent in the very bottom of his left pectoral where the glans was pressing lightly into the muscle.

What the fuck was happening to him?

He looked up and met his own green-gold eyes, trying to order his thoughts. Something was happening to him—to all of them. Everyone in the frat was getting incrementally more hung at a rate that was minuscule but accretive. The level of the effect varied. Short of doing a comprehensive survey with his improvised tape measure he couldn’t be sure, but Holden seemed to be getting the worst of it—though there might be other outliers. He’d barely seen Dwight the last few weeks, and the studious, extra-quiet junior seemed to opting for some very baggy clothes lately.

There were other, lesser general effects as well. Horniness. Libido. That much was obvious. Appraising his shirtless physique he was fairly certain he was a notch or two buffer, too, than he’d been a month before. A couple of the guys—he included Jamie in this group—were, from all appearances, up by actual pounds of tight, hard muscle from the start of the semester. He had no way of knowing whether that was from differences in reactions to the effect or the added efficacy of their workouts because of it, but buffness enhancement was definitely a part of the overall “thing” that was going on.

He knew from the photo room that all this had to do with the frat, and that it went back decades, maybe to the beginning. Still… none of the “after” pictures, a full year on from initiation, he’d seen had even hinted at effects as dramatic as what he was experiencing only three months in. He’d gained a whole ruler’s worth of dick in that time and a corresponding enlarging of his hefty balls, too, and that was only the beginning.

And no one was even acknowledging it. It wasn’t odd everyone was crazy hung and crazy horny… it wasn’t strange for extroverted types to be hard and stroking their massive prick at the breakfast table… Jamie wasn’t unduly wowed by how huge a dick he was casually deep-throating… no one was freaking out that Holden was toting around a fifteen-inch boner everywhere he went or that he had blown huge loads of cum in front of god and country.

Casual arousal… abnormal size… uninhibited sexual activity… all that was being at least partly normalized. Maybe more and more so as the growth effects increased. No one was on this. After all he’d seen, and all the talk he’d heard, Holden was now certain he was the only one in the frat who was even focused on the fact that some kind of progressive transformation was happening to all of them.

With, he reminded himself, two very worrying exceptions. He went back to that overheard conversation in the game room. Whoever they were, they seemed to be in the know, maybe even in control of things.

One of them had said something about “upping the stakes” this year. That suggested there was an existing effect that could, under some mysterious circumstances, be amplified. Dramatically amplified, he thought grimly, starting at his raging erection in the mirror like it was an obnoxious roommate he couldn’t get rid of.

What was the effect? Growth, yes, but there was more to it than that. It wasn’t merely latent or passive. There were rules. He’d tried talking about it, only to find that he physically couldn’t. That night after the shower with Jamie he’d even tried writing it, just in an email to himself to test things out. His fingers wouldn’t even type the words, pleasure-bombed each time, just like he’d been in the shower. That effect was clearly… deliberate. An inhibition, and a punishment.

Whatever this was, it was designed with specific stimulations and specific triggers. Like a spell, he thought. Or a curse.

Two other pieces of evidence seemed to confirm this level of design and control. First: this last week, his orgasms had produced slightly but significantly more cum—more of a mess during, more shots at the time of climax, more physical jizz produced with each cataclysmic release. He was becoming very messy, even more than before. Not by a massive amount, just a notch or so more; but it was enough for him to notice. His gut told him he knew exactly how that had happened. Jamie had said he wanted it. Jamie had drunk Holden’s cum, and having that cum in him gave him a tiny, ephemeral amount of power over Holden’s body.

That in itself was kind of terrifying. People could say or want anything, not knowing it would have a real effect on the person they’d just pleasured. Anything could happen, even with small changes, especially if they built up and magnified (or clashed with) each other over the course of weeks and months of cum.

And the big one: the insider assholes in the game room had hinted that Holden was “blowing up” because he was tossing himself off so often. Until that moment in the hallway, Holden had been sure it was the other way around—his beautiful, insatiable dick and rampant horniness had been demanding his attention, and he’d been jerking (and, lately, self-sucking) himself to heart-pounding orgasms with embarrassing frequency. But what if the act of orgasm was what triggered the growth?

There was one way to test that, he thought. He would just… stop. He’d make a vow to himself he wouldn’t cum for a week and see what happened.

He was pretty sure the Holden in the mirror rolled his eyes even before he did. Still—if he could find the willpower—

Just then there was a quick rap at his door. Holden’s stomach fluttered. Had the other brothers come back to drag him to the party, shirtless, giant hard-on, and all? Or maybe it was Hank and Huan, now his biggest, most starry-eyed fans, looking engage in a little private two-on-one hero-worship.

When he opened the door, however, it turned out to be Jamie, looking all shoulders and lats in his loose tank top as usual, his expression flat. The ash-blond muscle god glanced down at his dick and then back up, raising his brows slightly.

Holden sighed and opened the door wider, letting him into his little room, knowing he wanted this, dreamed of it.

At least this time he’d make sure to get his hands on those lats. Any vows of abstention would have to wait.

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